Something Close to Tragic
by henrywiinter
Summary: A time progression one-shot of Viktor Nikiforov, his thoughts about skating and towards himself.


Russia is cold. Freezing, actually- but he likes it that way.

The rink is even more so. Placing a hand down when he misses a quadruple flip, or falling on the triple axel; the shock of it _burns._

The cold is what ignites him.

 _Viktor Nikiforov; thirteen years old._

He won the Junior Grand Prix the year he was old enough to qualify, gaining fans in an instant, drawn in by his pale features and long silver hair. The media loves him; a boy who skates with seemingly no expression yet conveys emotion by his very movements. And his jumps are _incredible,_ never faltering, never losing technical points.

He hears the whispers of _prodigy, talented, perfect_ and oh, doesn't he wish he feels the same.

 _Viktor Nikiforov; fifteen years old._

Three years of consecutive wins and a name known by the world. Shouldn't he feel something other than apathy by now? Yakov yells at him to show more feeling, but he's so _tired_ and _empty,_ and how can he mask something that isn't even there?

Sometimes it's just too much effort to do anything at all. When the pain in his head becomes too much, he replaces it with the burn of his legs from hours of skating. It's either one or the other.

 _Viktor Nikiforov; sixteen years old._

He's finished fourth in his first Senior Grand Prix and it's such a _relief._ Perhaps happiness is the wrong thing to feel, but now there's no title to uphold or any expectations to meet. Yakov isn't happy, of course- _you can do better than fourth-_ but there's finally real competition, finally something to make him feel _alive._

Consistency is nowhere near as fun.

Seventeen years old, and Viktor Nikiforov wants to die.

The house is empty, it always is _\- when was the last time his parents were even home? when was the last time they even cared-_ and it's too quiet, far too quiet. The heating isn't on and the lights are off; he could pass for a ghost with his carefully modelled stance and his pale, pale skin.

The only colour is the darkening red against his arm, as he watches in fascination while the blood pools outwards. The blade was sharp- sharp enough to make him flinch and enough that the sting brought an abrupt end to the overthinking in his mind.

Viktor looks down at himself, at the red lines criss-crossing up and down his arms and the purple bruises marring his legs. All he can do is laugh, the sound echoing off the tiled walls as his body shakes.

 _Perfect, infallible, flawless,_ he's probably been called any possible synonym in all his years of competitive skating. _They couldn't be further from the truth._

He flirts with the camera, smirking at his fans and letting the media speculate all they want about his relationships. And yet there he stands, shivering in a dark bathroom as his own blood drips off his arms and his soul hurts with how _utterly lonely_ he is.

Being a world-class figure skater progressing further and further up the ranking each year definitely has its advantages, if you consider one of those to be permission for skating alone in the dead of night at the local rink. It's the only time Viktor doesn't have to bother with long sleeves or paranoia about not landing a jump in front of people.

Sometimes his blood mingles with the ice, if he falls particularly badly and scrapes against the ground. Other times he's gone into his coaching sessions the next day with a knee so damaged he can barely walk (he's come to realise that Yakov's pretty funny when he gets mad).

He'll take any extra practice time he can get. Two years ago he might've been less concerned about not placing on a podium, but now? Now every competition he ends with less than first, well, that's just another sign of his inadequacy. _World-class figure skater than can't even win gold._

-

The edge of the blade makes him hiss as he drags it along his forearm. Viktor's silver hair falls over his eyes while he breaths in and out, fingernails turning white as his grip tightens on the sink. Moonlight shines through the window and even that is too bright- _it hurts._

His blank gaze falls towards the night sky, constellations and clouds ruining the otherwise perfect darkness. Everything is so far away- _is he even real? is anything even real-_ and the only movement to reassure him that _something else is alive_ is the occasional bird flying past the window.

Nights are too still; too empty, too lonely. The voices at the rink are always overwhelming and so _loud,_ but he'll take them over the voice in his head that whispers to just _end it all._

And he's already had enough time to contemplate that in the early hours of darkness and pale sunrise when his mind won't let him sleep. It's not only then, either, nor is it even _conscious_ most of the time. Maybe it's just the passing thought of throwing himself in front of a car on the way to training, or the urge to stab himself in the wrist while he changes the blades of his skates.

It's too much effort to even live.

Viktor rests his face on his hand, shivering under his cold palm and the winter wind coming from the sea. He overhears random snaps of passing strangers' conversations- _hey, i'll see you soon, coming home from work, i miss you_ \- and wishes he could hold onto a thought for more than a few seconds.

Twenty three years old- he'd won his first gold medal at the Senior Grand Prix. He's _satisfied,_ not _happy-_ but even Yakov had no criticisms for once. Viktor himself; that was another matter. All he could think as he stood on the highest podium was _the landing wasn't stable enough, i nearly over-rotated, the angle was wrong-_ but then he smiled blindingly for the camera anyway, congratulating silver and bronze.

It's been a week since then and the attention hasn't died down at all. Strangers in the streets come up to him- _wait, are you viktor nikiforov, can i have a picture?_ \- or it's reporters waiting outside the rink- _will you give us an interview? how does your victory feel_ \- and he'll smile at them, take pictures and answer questions while feeling emptier each time.

Viktor stares outwards towards the setting sun and watches the gentle movement of the tides. The golden rays shine on the grey sea, an illusion of brightness as night slowly falls. He should probably head back soon, he thinks; there's another competition coming up soon and he needs the rest. But in the back of his mind, he knows he'll just return to the rink.

He's attempting his new routine for what must be the hundredth time. A beautiful piece of choreography created by his coach. It's still not right and he hates that- what good is a beautiful piece if he can't be beautiful himself?

But he has to keep trying and that's what he does. The music starts again and he _jumps-_

And then he _lands-_ to cries of _"Perfect, Vitya!"_ from Yakov and the cold air opposing the warmth of his heavy breaths. Finally. It's a hard routine, with more jumps and a higher technical difficulty than he'd ever attempted before. It terrifies him. The likelihood of messing up is far too high for his liking, and it could quite easily go wrong in competition. Every spare second is dedicated to perfecting the routine. It's tiring, but hasn't it always been? ****

When you win the Grand Prix once, you've got to continue a legacy somehow.

 _What's a legacy worth, anyway?_ Perhaps it matters while you're alive, but even then; it's what you've done that people care about, not who you are. Awards and titles and fame are all that matters.

It's a thought process Viktor carries often. He doesn't _want_ to give up on skating- that's all he's ever known- but sometimes he'd rather do nothing at all. Skating freely is fun, but it's not about that anymore, it's not been about that since he was entered into his first competition. Now he has to meet strict choreography and technical demands and all the rules that come with professional competitive skating. There's no life in it anymore.

After fourteen years of competitions and plans to retire in a couple more, it's a single video that makes Viktor Nikiforov fall in love with skating again.

 _Yuuri Katsuki, huh?_ The Japanese boy who came out of nowhere- only to lose last year's Grand Prix following a series of embarrassing falls. The Japanese boy Viktor may or may not have invited to take a photo last year, assuming he was another fan.

 _Well, that's even more embarrassing._

But Yuuri is _beautiful, flawless-_ is this even the same guy? It's one of Viktor's routines, the one he won with last year. Viktor never liked it much; it felt too lonely performing it by himself. But this? This is _incredible._ Life and love flow through every movement, the emotions he lacked in his own performance and the emotions he's missed for years.

They call it a muse, don't they? An inspiration for creativity or whatever.

Twenty seven years old, and Viktor Nikiforov wants to _live._


End file.
